In the King's Name, page 21
He noticed Lieutenant Squire shaking his head, perhaps thinking of some particular ship in the past. At the end of the line …
Adam continued, “Our patrols will proceed, as ordered. But more and smaller ships will be needed.” He paused. “And officers to command them.” He saw Devereux, their new Royal Marine, turn as Prior, the clerk, bent to recover a few pages of his carefully written notes, which had fallen to the floor like dried leaves.
Adam had met Devereux only briefly when Vincent had introduced him for what he called “the formalities,” and had liked what he saw. Keen, intelligent and open, even if he had been sent to Onward under something of a cloud. When he had asked Devereux if he were disturbed by the transfer from a seventy-four to a frigate, he had seemed unable to contain himself.
“On the contrary, sir, I feel alive again!”
Vincent had remarked with an odd sarcasm, “Thanks to your predecessor,” although minutes earlier he had been making the newcomer welcome.
Adam heard the brief rumble of trucks directly overhead in the great cabin, and could imagine Morgan anxiously watching every move as an eighteen-pounder was checked. At least here in the wardroom, one deck lower, they were spared the presence of guns.
He reached for his hat and said, “We have a fine ship!”
Someone gave a cheer but was drowned out as Harry Drummond, the bosun, lurched to his feet, sending his chair crashing behind him. “An’ we’ve got a fine captain!”
They were all standing now, some taking up the cheer as the door closed behind him. Adam stood quite still, for how long he did not know. The same seaman was nearby, now leaning on a broom. I should not have insisted on coming. These same men trusted me, and some have paid dearly for it.
A few minutes later Vincent joined him. It was quiet again. “I was wondering about cordage supplies, sir.”
Their eyes met, captain and first lieutenant once more. Adam thought of Vincent’s own words. The ship comes first. He was wrong.
“What the hell?” Vincent was staring at the ladder. There were muffled shouts and feet thudding on deck: a boat coming alongside, and making heavy weather of it. And here came Walker, their youngest midshipman, almost falling as he slithered to a halt.
“Officer of the guard, sir!” He held out a thick envelope. “For you, sir!”
Adam took it. The familiar buff colour, his own name and rank in perfect script. Walker puffed importantly, “It needs the captain’s signature!”
Vincent snapped, “We know that.”
Adam said, “Thank you, Mr. Walker,” and smiled at the boy. “You must take more exercise. Onward is too confined for you.”
The wardroom door was open, and Prior was waiting patiently with a pen and an ink container. Between his prominent teeth was a paper-knife. Nothing ever seemed to catch him unawares.
Like the burial service at sea or the Articles of War, Adam knew these words by heart. Being in all respects ready for sea…
Midshipman Walker, still panting, had brought a stool from somewhere, and was looking on wide-eyed as Adam leaned down with the pen and signed his name.
Vincent said, “I’ll give it to the officer of the guard, sir,” but it sounded like a question.
Adam blew on the ink to dry it. “Sailing orders.” He folded the main section and thrust it inside his coat. “The day after tomorrow, weather permitting.” He moved toward the ladder. “I shall give it to him myself.”
The wardroom door was still open, but there was not a sound to be heard.
Vincent repeated, “Day after tomorrow, sir?”
Adam wanted to smile. Jago, for one, would not be surprised. It was a Friday.
“We will talk soon.” He paused, with one foot on the ladder. “The flag captain will be sailing with us.”
Lieutenant James Squire stood by the forecastle in the eyes of the ship and gazed down at the anchor cable. He had done this too many times to remember, but the moment never failed to impress him, standing like this with his back turned on the remainder of the ship, sharing it only with the figurehead and his outthrust trident. Most people, even those who thought they knew him well, might be surprised by the intensity of his emotions.
He could feel the deck stirring under his feet, and the breeze was strong and steady, enough to create little waves beneath the stem as if Onward were eager and already under way. He should be used to it, but this time it felt different, and knowing why was no help.
He turned almost reluctantly and looked along the full length of the ship. Men being mustered in readiness for putting to sea. Senior hands checking names, others facing aft toward the quarterdeck. And the capstan, unmanned as yet. Twelve bars like the spokes of a wheel. Twelve men to each bar. He had known times when it had taken more, when wind and sea had joined to fight them before the anchor had broken free.
Squire saw the small knot of people near the big double wheel, Vincent pointing at something, and Julyan, the master, nodding as if in agreement. And along the upper deck and gangways a midshipman standing sturdily here and there, to relay messages or chase up stragglers if an order was not obeyed promptly.
He glanced over at his own two particular “young gentlemen,” Napier and Simon Huxley. They had become part of his team in more ways than one, like the seamen around them, who knew exactly how far they could go before Squire had to put an edge to his voice. All in all, a good crew to control, although Squire would never have told them so.
The captain was nowhere in sight: probably still in his cabin, making sure he had forgotten nothing before the flag captain came aboard. A senior officer and the admiral’s right hand … Squire had come up the hard way, and still nurtured many of the grudges and prejudices of the lower deck.
Onward had swung to her anchor and the flagship was almost hidden by canvas and rigging. Maybe the day of the “liner” had come to an end? The old Jacks scoffed about it, but when Medusa was paid off …
“Sir!” Midshipman Huxley was gesturing, interrupting the disturbing thoughts. “Boat leaving the flagship, sir!” He was a youth who rarely smiled, but he was a close friend of Napier’s, and Squire was oddly proud of them both.
He looked away abruptly and saw the sudden bustle and excitement as the call was piped to muster all hands. The flag captain was cutting it fine, he thought. Sailing time was set for noon.
He had seen Lynch, the cook, leave his galley a while back, his old fiddle half-hidden by his apron, ready to get these feet stamping around the capstan while he still had the taste of rum on his lips to inspire him.
Squire walked deliberately to the opposite side of the deck, knowing from experience that the older hands always watched him at this critical moment in case he revealed any uncertainty. He half smiled. Panic, rather. The other anchor was catted, but ready to let go if there was a sudden emergency. None so far, but there was always a first time.
More shouts: the side party at their stations now to receive the flag captain. Even above that he could hear Lieutenant Monteith venting his impatience on someone in the afterguard, and saw two of his own men exchange grimaces. He could hardly blame them.
The wardroom was a small, private world, or should be. But as far as Squire was concerned, Monteith was still a stranger. Maybe Monteith had changed in some way since the landing party. Or is it me?
“Attention on deck! Face to starboard!”
Squire could hear the steady beat of oars, double-banked, although the boat was hidden by Onward‘s side.
The captain would already be there to greet his superior. But it went deeper than that. There was friendship as well as a mutual respect: you could feel it when you saw them together. Bolitho, of course, was much younger than Tyacke, and he had never been a diplomat and found it harder to disguise his true feelings when he was under pressure. Like that moment when he had turned and said simply to Squire, “If I should fall …” And Squire remembered his own reply, spoken without hesitation.
He stared aft again, to gauge how much longer … But Onward had swung slightly at her anchor, and instead of moored harbour craft he could now see two large buildings, one with a long balcony: the Osprey Mission.
Would Claire see Onward when she weighed? Would she care? Now, all she wanted was to forget. But life had to be faced again and lived no matter what, and he would only be a painful reminder. Like the scars on her skin and her memory.
He knew that he was biting his lip, a habit he had sworn to conquer, and bellowed, “Stand by, lads!”
He saw Midshipman Napier reach over to touch his friend’s arm. It was all still an adventure at their age.
Another voice: Harry Drummond, the bosun. “Man the capstan! Jump to it!” And the squeak of halliards as the Jack was lowered. For good or ill, the waiting was over.
“Heave, me bullies, heave!” More men running to throw their weight on the capstan bars, and a few marines piling arms in case their strength, too, would be required.
Squire found himself holding his breath until, after what seemed like an age, he heard the first metallic click from the capstan as the pawls began to move. The cable looked bar-taut, shining like metal as it took the full strain.
Vincent’s voice rang out, clear and final. “Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!”
Despite the orderly confusion Squire could hear the cook’s fiddle, and his foot stamping time.
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
more bright than Mayday morn …
The sun was behind Squire and he took a moment to look aloft where the topmen were already spacing themselves along the yards, like puppets against the sky. Skill and experience, the true seamen in any man-of-war. But for every one of them there was always a first time, too, and Squire had never forgotten the sight of the deck or the sea swaying so far beneath him. And the flick of a starter across his backside if he was slow about it.
The capstan was moving steadily, and he thought maybe a little faster, and Onward had swung in response to wind and current. The mission was hidden, the guardboat was pulling away, someone waving from the sternsheets. He heard one of his own men mutter a joke, and laugh as if completely untroubled.
Onward would stir any man’s heart when she spread her canvas, and the anchor was catted just a few feet from his vantage point. And Claire might be watching. Remembering …
Squire studied the cable again, and the swirling traces of mud and sand in the water.
“Stand by!”
He saw Napier turn toward him and for a moment thought he had spoken her name aloud. He jabbed Napier’s shoulder. “Pass the word! Larboard quarter!”
He knew Huxley had been watching the procedure closely. Perhaps imagining himself in his own ship one day. Like his father.
“Up and down, sir! Hove short!”
If the water was clear enough, Onward‘s great shadow would be visible right now, reaching for her own anchor.
Click click click.
Squire stared aft again and saw the men on deck peering up at the yards, others ready at the braces. Like a familiar pattern but, as always, the captain stood alone.
Slower now. Some of the waiting marines had squeezed themselves into the revolving wheel of seamen. One of the scarlet uniforms was the new officer, Devereux. Squire had met him only briefly. It would take time. He was young.
He smiled. Of course. He held up his arm, and saw Vincent’s immediate acknowledgment.
“Anchor’s aweigh!”
Adam Bolitho listened to the capstan and felt the deck shudder beneath his feet as the anchor broke free of the ground. Two helmsmen were at the wheel, and Donlevy, the quartermaster, was standing by, as he had been since all hands had been piped. Julyan, the master—”Old Jolly” as he was called behind his back—was not far away, one of his mates beside him, slate and pencil poised for anything that might need recording in the log, or on a chart.
The shrouds and stays trembled and rattled as the first canvas broke and filled at the yards, and again the deck quivered as if other hands were trying to control the rudder.
Adam was standing in the shadow of the mizzen, just paces abaft the wheel, and without the sun in his eyes could see the full length of the ship. Squire and his men in the bows watching for the first sign of the anchor-ring, the “Jews-harp” as it was known, breaking the surface, so that it could be catted and made secure. More men being sent to the braces to lend their strength, and heave the great yards further round until each sail was full-bellied and stiff in the wind. A few men slipping in the struggle with wind and sea. To the landsman or casual onlooker, it must appear utter confusion until order was finally restored, topsails set, and the unruly jib trimmed and sharp, like the fin of a shark.
Adam watched the shore moving now as Onward gathered way, and the two hills which had become familiar, essential landmarks for this final run to the headland, and beyond to the open sea.
He leaned back now, gazing at the spread of canvas above, the masthead pendant stiff as a lance in the wind. Some topmen were making a lashing secure, or waving to others on the foretop, apparently indifferent to the distance from the deck.
The shudder again: the rudder taking charge.
“Anchor’s secured, sir.” Vincent was watching critically as the capstan bars were stowed away.
Adam thought he heard Jago’s voice above the thud of canvas and the chorus of rigging. He was standing near the boat tier kicking a wedge like a gun-quoin into place, to make them more secure for sea. He seemed to feel Adam’s eyes on him and twisted round to give his little gesture, like a private signal. So many times.
“Fall out the anchor party!”
More voices now: the nippers, youngsters who would be joining others stowing the incoming cable after they had scrubbed every fathom of it. Adam beckoned to Midshipman Hotham, who was standing by the flag-locker, a telescope over his shoulder.
Hotham said, “No signal, sir. Only the acknowledgment to mine.” He almost blushed. “Ours, sir!”
Adam levelled the glass but regretted it: in the short time since they had up-anchored, the bearing and distance had completely changed. The flagship now seemed bows-on, her masts in line and her figurehead unusually bright in the sunlight. Her pendant was still flying, but her ensign was obscured by the high poop. No boats alongside, and nobody on deck as Onward had passed. A ship already dead. He thought of the flag lieutenant. Finished.
He handed back the telescope and wondered why he had left his own in the great cabin beneath his feet. He glanced at the skylight, covered now by a heavy grating as a precaution while getting under way, in case something should fall from aloft. Easier than cutting new glass, he had heard Hall, the carpenter, remark.
But he was thinking of Tyacke. They had scarcely spoken since he had climbed aboard. There had been only a quick, firm handshake and an apology for his abrupt arrival, then he had made a point of going straight below where Morgan would make certain he was not disturbed. If that was possible in any man-of-war preparing for sea.
Adam knew it was why he had left the old telescope there. Tyacke was probably focusing it even now, watching the harbour opening out, headlands sliding aside for their departure.
Or looking astern at Medusa?
“Southwest-by-south, sir!” Julyan was by the compass box, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. “Full an’ bye!”
Adam looked up at the yards, braced hard round, sails firm but not flapping or losing the wind. The ship was performing well. The topmen or those on the lee gangway could be looking down at their own reflections by now. And unless … He felt his mouth soften into a smile. Unless was every captain’s sheet-anchor.
He thought again of Tyacke, when they had last spoken. The only other sound had been the first clink of the capstan.
“We’re going to New Haven.” He had paused, regarding Adam searchingly. “You already knew, didn’t you?”
Adam had answered, “I guessed.”
Tyacke had shaken his head. “There’s a hell of a lot of Sir Richard in you, Adam, and I’m bloody glad of it!” He had still been smiling when the cabin door had closed.
But what was Tyacke thinking now, alone with his memories? A born sailor, and an officer of distinction. The devil with half a face.
He turned as he heard Monteith’s voice, not for the first time since the capstan had been manned: “What d’ you mean, you didn’t understand? Are you so stupid? Do I have to say everything twice?”
Adam knew Vincent was watching. So much had happened. Men had died and he had blamed himself, but he was proud, too. Of them.
The responsibility is mine.
He looked toward the land again and did not need a glass to see that the two hills were beginning to overlap. Soon now they would alter course, and with the wind in their favour make more sail. A lot of the canvas was still new, untried. He had heard Julyan say, “That’ll shake the gum out of ‘em!”
He saw the surgeon by one of the guns, pausing to speak with Squire, gesturing at the headland. Different worlds, but they seemed firm friends now.
Three bells rang out from the forecastle as Onward altered course. One and a half hours exactly since the anchor had been secured to Squire’s satisfaction. Into the deeper, stronger swell of open water, with a temporary stand-easy as a hasty meal was arranged for most of the ship’s company, the welcome aroma of rum reaching even the great cabin when Adam quit the quarterdeck for the first time.
After the sun and reflected glare, the cabin seemed almost dark. But the grating had been removed from the skylight and Tyacke was sitting at the table, a folio of papers and an enlarged section of chart pressed under one elbow.
He seemed about to stand but changed his mind as the deck tilted suddenly, in time with the shudder from the rudder. “Getting lively, eh?”
Adam sat opposite him and heard the pantry door creak. Hugh Morgan was on his toes, as always. “I’ll get the t’gallants on her when I have more sea-room, sir.”
